Fighter
by Kirsh
Summary: As Anduin wrestles with his sorrow and anger, his thoughts inevitably turn to the one person whom he actually misses the most, and his anger finds a new target there. Though Anduin can only hold on to his anger for so long, it doesn't make him any less a fighter.


Anduin paced the length of the great hall in Stormwind Keep, his arms folded firmly over his chest as tight as he dared. His heart felt like a hard, tiny, pounding ball, thready and unsteady. He had to concentrate just to breathe without bursting into a hysterical fit. He felt like he was going to fly apart or implode or cry himself to death. He reached the end of the hall, spun on his heel, and paced back the other way. He replayed the day's events over in his head, but seeing them a second time, or even a third or fourth time, didn't bring forth any new answers or insights. He had no power to change the facts, no matter how much he wished he did, and the facts had enough power to continue to bite and tear at his soul even though they shouldn't. He reached the end of the hall, spun around, and started on a new circuit.

His father was dead. Not just dead, but gone. Obliterated. Not even a scrap remained of Varian for Anduin to recover to bury. If a few days' time, Anduin would be presiding over a funeral with an empty casket, which would go in an empty grave, right next to the grave of his mother. Anduin didn't know the first thing to say for his father's eulogy. He didn't even know how to feel _right now_. He felt many emotions he could identify, and many more he couldn't. He was sad, angry, despondent, scared, lonely, wrathful. He'd heard how his Aunt Jaina had reacted when Garrosh had dropped the mana bomb of Theramoore, but hadn't understood her ire. Hadn't understood why she would lash out with every ounce of her power at innocents, at people who likely hadn't had a damn clue as to what was actually going on and would've had nothing to do with it if they had. Now, ironically, he knew exactly why Jaina had reacted the way she had. The anger and fear was consuming, and the hate sought a target. It didn't matter if the innocent got caught up in the retribution; they were guilty simply by association.

Anduin wanted to lash out, but not at the Horde as a whole, as Genn Greymane had suggested. He wanted to find Gul'dan and rip the orc apart piece by piece while the bastard still lived so he could listen to Gul'dan scream. He wanted to give Gul'dan the same exact, excruciatingly painful death Varian had suffered. Except he couldn't. That was only one of the bones Anduin was choking on right now. And it wasn't so much that he _couldn't_ , because he mostly certainly _could_ , and there would be plenty of volunteers on both sides who would be more than willing to help, but because he _wouldn't_. Anduin wasn't a violent person by nature. He disliked confrontation. He would fight to the last breath in his body to save a life, certainly, but he wouldn't go out of his way looking for a fight as his father had been wont to do. No, Anduin was quite certain even if he had Gul'dan at his mercy, he wouldn't be able to kill him, no matter what the orc had done to his father and to Azeroth.

He turned, paced back the other way.

Genn had told Anduin every excruciatingly painful detail of Varian's valiant last stand and sacrifice. Then he'd handed Anduin the letter his father had written in the hours before his death. It took Anduin a long time to realize that this was very real and not a cruel joke. It took him a ling time to realize he was an orphan at eighteen and the king of an entire country. He railed against it all, citing that he wasn't ready to be a king and he hadn't yet learned all the fineries of court - and its intrigue - that Varian had dealt with every day. But the truth was, ready or not, he had the job. Genn had offered what comfort he could, and having lost his own son and his country, he understood Anduin's pain better than anyone else in Stormwind. Condolences came from all over, some signed with names he didn't recognize, and some not signed at all. Even Baine had sent kind words, for who else knew how much it hurt to lose a father to violence than him? His friend would have come in person, Anduin knew, but he hadn't wanted Baine to risk his life just for that.

Anduin had also received a letter in a feminine but powerful hand, and he knew exactly who had sent it. Sylvanas might be a frigid bitch at the best of times, but she wasn't a horrible person. She had explained herself, and though she held no regrets about what had happened at the Broken Shore, she had offered him a discreet friendship that Varian had enjoyed only briefly. Anduin hadn't yet replied to the Horde's Warchief, but he'd hidden her letter where no one could find it. Intellectually, he understood her words. Emotionally, he wasn't ready to acknowledge her yet. It wasn't really her fault - no matter how much Genn blamed her - but Anduin wanted to hold her responsible for a little while longer.

But Sylvanas wasn't the only one who shouldered the blame.

Anduin hated Genn too. Because Genn could have sacrificed himself. A number of people could have sacrificed themselves. On one level, Anduin understood why the thought never occurred to them, and he understood why it had occurred to his father, but it didn't make the pain of loss any easier. Varian had done it for reasons only he knew, reasons that Anduin could only speculate. But he was pretty confident that he knew that he, that Anduin himself, had been one of the driving reasons Varian had jumped from the airship. Anduin, and the fact that Varian would never ask anyone to do something that he wasn't willing to do himself.

"For once in your life, couldn't you have been selfish?" Anduin asked the shade of his father. Varian didn't answer of course, but Anduin still felt the heavy gaze boring into his back. Of course Varian wouldn't have thought to be selfish. Not in that situation. Not in battle. To his father, the lives of his people were far more important to be sacrificed so callously. And Anduin couldn't be sure Varian had _intended_ to die, though he _was_ certain his father had expected to find his death if he went down there. You didn't fight to win, so many adventurers had told him, you fight to survive. If you die, then it just sort of happened. A cruel twist of fate.

Speaking of cruel twists of fate...

Anduin stopped pacing and leaned against the cold stone of the wall, staring at the tops of his boots. He slid to the floor and drew his legs to his chest, resting his chin atop his knees. He stared without seeing, fighting not to cry.

Two years. Two years and not a damn word from Wrathion. The last he'd seen of Wrathion had been during the confusion of battle at Garrosh's trial. When Kairoz - with Wrathion's help - had betrayed them all and forced the champions of the Horde and Alliance to chase him to Draenor twenty years in the past, but in an alternate timeline. A timeline where the orcs had never drunk Mannoroth's blood, where they never invaded Azeroth, where his father wasn't made an orphan, and so much more. Word had reached Anduin that Wrathion had been spotted, seen, heard, but that was it. No clues. Nothing. It was as if Wrathion had just vanished into thin air.

Anduin was very afraid of what Wrathion might be doing in that alternate timeline, or worse, if he had overestimated himself and had gotten killed. Anduin had clung to the hope that Wrathion would return like it was his only child, but as time wore on and as he'd grown up, that hope became harder and harder to hold on to.

 _"I will never hurt you, Anduin."_

"Liar." Anduin hissed into his knees. His control broke then and he began to cry, not caring if anyone heard him. His father was gone, his best friend and lover was gone, and he was utterly and completely alone.

How long Anduin cried he didn't know or particularly care. As long as he was left alone, he was perfectly fine. He knew that, eventually, he'd have to stop wallowing in his misery and put on his big boy pants and be the king his people needed him to be. He would have to bury himself in intelligence from SI:7, coordinate the assault on the Legion with the other leaders of the Alliance, Khadgar and the Kirin Tor, and maybe, secretly, Sylvanas and the Horde, and fight to save the precious world and lives that so many had given their lives for already. He would have to prepare himself for assassination attempts from the Legion. He would have to prepare himself for the heavy losses the Alliance would suffer in the coming days. He would have to prepare himself to fight for the peace he had worked so hard to achieve.

A memory teased at him, an old one, when he had been recovering in the Tavern in the Mists. A blood elf warlock had been sitting at his and Wrathion's usual table, methodically going through her pack while her voidwalker had kept careful watch over her. Not that anyone dared approach her, nor tell her to move. Even Anduin could tell she was dangerous. It was in the way she held herself, relaxed but confident, assured of her ability. Anduin had limped over to occupy the other chair, and had offered her a greeting. She replied with a warm smile, and they had gotten to chatting.

"How do you do it?" Anduin had asked. "How do you always know what to do and when to do it? How do you know you can do it?"

She had replied, "You don't. Not until you try. Don't fail until you fail. Besides that," she shrugged, "take care of your people. Live your life. Do what you think is best, and everything else will usually fall into place. And, above all, never ever give up the fight. Take as many as you can with you."

Anduin lifted his head and stared at the ceiling of the hall. He remembered his father smiling as he recounted the story to him. Varian's smile had been knowing, and all he said was, "Sound advice."

Advice Varian had listened to, at the very end.

Boots scuffed on stone, but Anduin ignored the sound of obvious approach. The guards often angled their rounds toward this hall to check on him, like he was going to do something stupid to himself if they didn't keep a constant eye on him. Besides, Anduin decided, he was probably going to hallucinate ghosts of his father for a while, just until the wounds had scarred over enough to be ignored.

 _Stupid Wrathion,_ Anduin thought, his ire finding ground in the image of the Black Prince, _stupid, lying, cocky bastard! When I find him, I'm going to yell at him. No, I'll kiss him first and THEN I'll yell at him. Bastard for leaving me like this, without a word or a hint that he's still alive._

Anduin narrowed his eyes at the thought of Wrathion, determined not to get suckered out of his rage by the black dragon's image. Who knew what Wrathion looked like now? At two years old, he'd held the image of a dark-skinned, dark-haired, red-eyed boy about the same physical age as Anduin. Now he was four. Would he still look like a sixteen year old? Or would he look more in keeping with Anduin's physical age and look like he was eighteen too?

It didn't matter. If Wrathion hadn't betrayed them, if Wrathion hadn't left, maybe he could have helped the Alliance during the assault on the Broken Shore. Maybe Varian would still be alive.

Or, whispered that traitorous little voice inside Anduin, maybe he'd be dead too, and you'd be right back where you are, moping.

Anduin clenched his fist and issued a soft growl that would have made a wolf proud. He squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could, until he could see colored spots, and clenched his teeth. A howl wanted to escape his throat, but he fought it, swallowing it down until it churned unpleasantly in his belly. The boots continued to approach, their tread steady. Whoever was coming toward him wasn't worried about arousing the young king's ire at all. Not that Anduin wanted to snap at the hapless guard, who was probably just doing his job. If the guard was worth his salt, he'd pass on by and leave Anduin alone. He'd likely go report to Genn that Anduin was crying like a little girl on the floor in the hallway, but that he was perfectly fine. Anduin was anything but fine, and he doubted that he would be anything close to fine in the coming days.

The boots stopped. Anduin lifted his head enough to see the shiny black boots and the black pants tucked into them. They weren't the boots issued to the guards. They weren't boots any adventurer would find comfortable for the long slog through swamps or the frigid climb up a mountainside. They weren't even the boots Genn preferred, and they looked much too new to belong to the Gilnean king.

"Anduin?" came the deep voice Anduin recognized far too well.

Anduin slowly raised his head, following the line of those dark pants to a belt elegantly designed from silk and steel to a dark tunic. His eyes kept traveling up until he saw the dusky skin of a neck, the finely cut goatee on a handsome chin, and at last the crimson red eyes that were framed by soft locks of black hair. Slowly, Anduin pushed himself to his feet and stared at Wrathion. Time had not diminished the Black Prince in the slightest. He stood tall and proud over Anduin, dressed in ebony and rich reds that accented his dark skin. No longer did he wear his customary turban, but rather let his hair fall free in waves of black silk around his face and neck. He was no longer as slender as he had been, rather a little more muscular and toned, his body belying the true strength he must have, in both his forms. His crimson eyes still held the edge of arrogance, but it was more tempered now with the weight of experience. He looked like a young man in his twenties, and he looked beautiful.

Tears started to fill Anduin's eyes. Wrathion smiled his familiar smirk and Anduin knew at once that he wasn't dreaming. "Are those tears of joy, Anduin?" Wrathion asked. He spread his arms, as if preparing to receive a hug. "I'm tou-"

Anduin punched Wrathion as hard as he could in his smirking, irritating mouth. Wrathion's head snapped back at the force of the blow and he stumbled backwards a few feet before he hit the ground on his ass. Anduin sucked in a deep breath and fought not to scream at the sudden pain in his knuckles.

"What was that for?!" Wrathion shouted, his hand at his mouth, those crimson eyes wide in shock.

"What was that for? _What was that for_?! You _bastard_!" Anduin screamed at him. He shook his hand out and then clutched it to his chest. "Ah, damn it! That freaking hurts... You stupid, back-stabbing, selfish, son of a bitch! How _dare_ you show up here and ask me that?! It's your damn fault I'm like this in the first place! Your damn fault Azeroth has gone to hell _again_! How many more damn times am I going to have to clean up your mess, Wrathion?!"

Wathion stared at him with wide eyes and let his lip continue to bleed. "Anduin-"

"I'm not finished!" Anduin snapped, tears coming hot and hard and unrelenting. "You left for _two years_ without a damn word! Not even a 'hey, don't worry, I'm alive'! I thought you were trapped on Draenor or dead! You and your stupid machinations! A threat is coming? Yeah, it came all right! Came because of you! Of you and Kairoz and stupid Garrosh and stupid _fucking_ Gul'dan! _You_ unleashed the Legion upon us, _you_ did nothing to stop them, _you_ got my father killed, and the first thing you say to me is that _you're touched by seeing me cry_?! Do you _honestly_ believe these tears are for _you_ , you selfish prick?!"

Now Wrathion was gaping at him, an unreadable expression on his face.

Anduin couldn't stop himself. All the rage and sorrow and pain he'd kept bottled up inside him now had an outlet, and it wouldn't end until he'd excised all of it. "You told me, _promised_ _me_ , that you'd never hurt me, but you did! You got my father killed! All I have of him is Shalamayne. I don't even have a _bone_ to bury! Because of what you, in your infinite wisdom, did. My father was _obliterated_. You got Vol'jin killed! You got hundreds of good people, both Alliance and Horde, killed! You've unleashed a terrible menace upon the world you wanted to protect! And in your infinite, frustrating, bull-headed arrogance you think I'm going to be _okay_ with that?! That I'm just going to welcome you with open arms? Do you have _any_ idea about how I feel, Wrathion?"

When Anduin did nothing but stand there and rapidly breathe, Wrathion finally pushed himself to his feet and carefully ventured, "Like you want to kick my ass?"

"And give the black dragon the prize for understatement of the year!"

"Anduin, that's not fair, and you know it." Wrathion said quietly.

Anduin tried to punch him again, but this time Wrathion caught his fist. With a sharp tug, Wrathion pulled Anduin against him and wrapped his arms tight around the smaller blonde. And then he felt his heart break as Anduin began to wail like a mortally wounded animal. The sound grated on Wrathion's conscience, made him hate himself just a little more because Anduin wasn't wrong. He _was_ the catalyst for the Legion's reentry into Azeroth. He was the cause of Anduin's misery, and the cause of the misery for so many others. It hurt him terribly to hear Anduin blaming him for the actions of others, as if he'd struck the deathblow himself. But it wasn't fair for Anduin to blame him for everything. He hadn't been the only one to screw up so miserably. He hadn't been the only one to make terrible choices, choices that would have untold, unknown repercussions in the future.

"Anduin," Wrathion started, resting his cheek against soft blonde strands, "I'm sorry." He knew Anduin knew he'd meant those words when the smaller man clutched tighter to him and buried his face into Wrathion's chest to muffle his sounds. "I'm so sorry, Anduin. I didn't want any of this to happen. I didn't _mean_ for any of this to happen. I _never_ wanted you to be hurt. I promised you that I would never hurt you, but I did, didn't I?"

"You're right, though," Anduin said, his voice muffled against Wrathion's tunic. "I'm not being fair. It wasn't just you. Everyone tried to do what we thought was right."

Wrathion shook his head, hugging Anduin tighter. "I'm wrong, too. I thought I knew best when it came to defending Azeroth, and in my arrogance caused all this." He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. "I learned a lot of things in my journey on Draenor, things about myself that I wish I really hadn't learned, and things about the people who live in this world. Our greatest defense against any threat are the warriors, mages, druids, death knights, warlocks, priests, shamans, paladins, rogues, and monks that fight on the front lines and give their lives every day to protect the simplest things."

Anduin sucked in a deep breath and pulled back to look Wrathion in the eyes. "There's the Illidari now, too."

"What?"

"The Illidari. The demon hunters. I've met a few. Some are incredibly serious, but others are rather..." Anduin paused, as if he couldn't figure out a polite way to describe them. "Some are... interesting."

Wrathion stared down at Anduin for a while. Anduin stared back, his eyes still tear-bright. Wrathion lifted his hands and carefully used his thumbs to wipe away the tears on Anduin's cheeks. "You were right when you called me an arrogant son of a bitch. All my life I've been plotting the best course of action as if I were alone. But the truth is, I'm not alone. I've never been alone. I have you, and I found someone just like me. Someone who's lived a lie for a long time, trusting no one with the truth."

Anduin frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Wrathion smiled. "You'll see. Anduin, I love you."

Why did that sound so much like good-bye? "Wrathion, what-"

He silenced Anduin with a kiss. "I love you, Anduin, and I'll make up for everything. I'll see you again, I promise." Wrathion kissed Anduin again, cupping the blonde's face and pouring as much emotion and promise into their connection as he could. Then he released Anduin and stepped back slightly.

Anduin reached for him and-

"My lord?"

Anduin snapped awake. He was sitting against the wall in the hallway he'd been pacing. He frowned, unable to recall when he'd fallen asleep. He looked up at the guard, her eyes filled with concern as she watched him. Then he looked left and right, up and down the hall, but saw no one. They were the only two occupants in the hall. He touched his lips, where the tingling warmth of Wrathion's kiss still lingered. Had he dreamed all that?

"My lord? His Majesty, King Greymane, is requesting your presence in the throne room. I took the liberty of coming to find you, but if you prefer, I can come find you again in a few minutes?"

Anduin smiled, grateful for the offer. "Thank you, but no. Please tell Genn that I'll join him in a minute."

The guard nodded, respectfully not staring at Anduin's tear-stained face. Anduin got to his feet and started for his chambers, the guard trailing behind him before breaking away to fulfill her orders. Anduin felt, for perhaps the first time in a while, a smile creeping onto his face. No, he hadn't dreamed Wrathion's presence at all. He had been there, in that hall, in that dreamscape. His touch still lingered on Anduin's skin and lips. Wrathion was back on Azeroth, and Anduin had a pretty good idea where he was. The real challenge now was trying to get to him without raising too much suspicion. And once he found Wrathion, he would punch him for real this time, and he just might - _might_ \- soothe the blow with a kiss. The jerk had left before Anduin could reply, after all.

"You're bleeding."

Wrathion opened his eyes and touched his lip with his fingers. They came away wet with blood, and he couldn't help the smirk that lifted the corners if his mouth. "He hit me."

"Were you expecting anything less?"

"You know, I don't like being made to feel like an annoying little brother, Ebyssian."

The Tauren-shaped black dragon laughed low in his throat and began gathering the incense he'd used to help Wrathion contact Anduin in the dreamscape. "That's exactly what you are. An annoying little brother. I have ten thousand years on you, Wrathion."

Wrathion made an annoyed sound and got to his feet, looking at the older - sane - brother he hadn't expected to find. "You think he believes me?"

Ebyssian's dark eyes flicked to Wrathion's face. "I'm sure he does. Just as I'm sure he's going to find you and kick your ass from here to Dalaran and back again."

Wrathion's smirk twisted into a wry smile. "You really think he'll come?"

"What makes you think he won't?"

"He was pretty pissed at me."

Ebyssian chuckled. "If there's one thing I've learned in all the years I've been alive, it's to never give up hope. One way or another, he'll make his way here. He'll find you, or you him." He set a three-fingered hand on Wrathion's shoulder and squeezed. "Just don't get mad at him if he has to be sneaky about it."

Wrathion watched Ebyssian go, then let out a long sigh and folded his arms across his chest. He'd meant everything he'd said to Anduin. He would make it up to him somehow. He could never bring back Varian or Vol'jin or anyone else who'd died, but he could damn well make sure the Legion paid for their lives in blood. He looked up as someone entered the chamber and gave a pleased smile as the Stormwind guard - his guard, really, but he'd asked her to keep an eye on Anduin - removed her helmet. She gave him a pointed look. "Well?" Wrathion asked.

"I suggest you start wearing armor," her eyes drifted down to Wrathion's crotch, "because your young King is pretty pissed at you. Not for the whole dream thing, but because you didn't let him say 'I love you' back."

"He told you that?"

She nodded.

Wrathion's lips split into a wide grin. "That's my Wrynn. My fighter."


End file.
